


A Cautious Heart

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_harlequin, Cross-Generation Relationship, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Albus draws the short straw at work Friday night, he has to make a quick run out to Malfoy Manor to have the somewhat reclusive head of the firm sign papers needed for Monday morning. But things quickly go awry when a magical storm blows in, trapping Albus with the man who has been a source of fantasy for a long time. Draco tries to keep his distance from his unexpected guest, but circumstances make that difficult when even the house elves interfere!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> JK Rowling owns these characters; I just like to write them sometimes.
> 
> This was written for the community hp_harlequin in response to prompt #51. Draco Malfoy is a man renowned for being arrogant and seemingly emotionless, both in business and in his private life. He never combines work and pleasure, and steers clear of anyone who doesn't play by his rules…. Rule 1: He doesn't bed virgins. Albus is as pure as the snow falling outside Draco's window and he might well have Draco breaking every rule in his book!
> 
> Many thanks to my ever patient beta, eternaleponine.

He’d drawn the short straw, having to go out in the brewing storm to bring paperwork to Malfoy Manor to get Draco Malfoy’s signature. Not that Albus minded having to go. But it wasn’t considered a good assignment, late on a Friday night, having to meet with the head of the firm. Malfoy’s temper was legendary, his reclusive nature all too well known. Usually it would have been Parkinson, his assistant, but she was on holiday in France, so the need for a signature had slipped through the cracks until late.

Everyone had commiserated with Albus, offering to meet him at the Leaky Cauldron later for drinks, saying he’d need one after this encounter. Chances were he’d be yelled at for coming so late in the day and chewed out for bothering Malfoy on the weekend. At the same time, Albus knew that dedication would be recognized, and that Draco Malfoy would appreciate that _someone_ cared enough to ensure the case was properly settled and ready to be taken before the Wizengamot on Monday morning.

Besides, it gave Albus a chance to see what Draco Malfoy was like outside of the office, when he’d set aside his barrister’s robes. After all, the man had to be human, right? He couldn’t possibly be as cruel as rumour had it, as arrogant and emotionless, refusing to get involved. Whenever Albus watched him in the court room, he saw passion simmering there. Pale grey eyes gleamed silver, cheeks warmed with a faint rosy glow. And if Malfoy could be passionate about work, then it stood to reason he had other passions hidden somewhere. Albus had a private guess that there was a wife hidden away in Malfoy Manor, someone Malfoy adored but wouldn’t expose to the sharp edges of pureblood society. Maybe a muggleborn witch. Maybe someone younger, or older.

Maybe a bloke.

That was Albus’ favorite fantasy, that the reason Draco Malfoy was never seen with a woman on his arm wasn’t that he didn’t care, or that he was immune to love, but rather that he didn’t want a woman. Perhaps he had a kept man hidden away in the Manor. Or perhaps he was still waiting for the right one to come along.

That last thought made Albus grin as he apparated the last bit of distance, and landed just outside the wards of Malfoy Manor. He wrapped his arms around himself, tilting his head back to catch a snowflake on his tongue. He might be twenty, but he saw no reason to be dull and boring yet. With a grin, he turned, chasing another falling snowflake until he caught the tiny bit of cold on his tongue.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Potter?”

The voice came from nowhere, although Albus turned towards the house he could see in the distance and addressed that. “I’ve brought some paperwork that needs to be back in the office tonight.” He held up the portfolio he carried, trying to keep it shielded from the snow that was drifting down. “If you could let me through the wards, I’ll bring it in, you can sign it, and I’ll be off.”

Or maybe not, but Albus wasn’t going to bank on wrangling himself an invitation to stay a while. He could try to mention that he hadn’t had dinner yet. Or that it was snowing (the flakes seemed to be falling faster with every moment). Perhaps one of those might prey on Malfoy’s sensibilities and he’d be able to stay. Just for an hour or two, to see if he could figure out where Malfoy’s weaknesses lay. And if he liked blokes.

Albus was shivering by the time something unseen chimed, and he was directed to walk up to the house. The snow was falling thickly, the ground dusted with white and his robes growing damp by the time he arrived on the doorstep. When the door opened and Albus looked up through his damp fringe, a house elf stood there instead of Draco Malfoy.

Of course he’d have a house elf. He probably had a fleet of them.

“If Mister Potter would step inside?”

Albus stepped in as directed, placing his feet on a mat and waiting while the elf took his outer robes. He was glad he’d dressed well that day beneath them, his shirt still crisp and slacks soft and well made. “Thank you,” he said, only remembering once he had that the elves didn’t necessarily like being thanked. “Don’t take that far. I’m not sure I’ll be staying long.”

“He won’t.” Malfoy’s voice was firm. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed and brow furrowed. “Just what is so important that a junior clerk takes it upon himself to apparate all the way here on a Friday night? I’m quite certain you have someplace else you’d rather be.”

“Are you?” Albus couldn’t resist, even knowing he was risking his job with that mild flirt. “I’d say I volunteered, but that’d be lying. I drew the short stick, but I don’t mind having to come out here. They’re the papers for the Blake case, and without Ms. Parkinson in, they got lost in the shuffle this week. Anderson needs your signature in four places, and initials in two. I’ve got them all marked, and if you’ll just let me—” he looked around for a table, frowning when he didn’t see a place to lay out the portfolio. “Do you think we could move into your dining room? I could use a little space.”

“If it would please the Master, I have chocolate biscuits, and lemon creams.” The elf tugged at her ear, watching Malfoy hopefully. “It has been so long since the Master has had a guest…”

No guests, hm? Albus filed that away, although that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone else living here. Just that Malfoy didn’t bring home strays very often. “I love lemon creams,” he volunteered, smiling to himself when the elf’s expression lit with pure pleasure.

“Plippy assures Mr. Potter that these are the very _best_ lemon creams he might ever have.”

“Go.” Malfoy waved a hand, and the elf winked out. Lips pursed thinly, he leveled a look at Albus. “Don’t presume to use the happiness of my elves against me, Mr. Potter. They have me to care for, and that is enough. If you’ll accompany me, we can complete your assignment and have you home before the storm worsens.” His smile thinned further. “Do not think to find some excuse to stay. I knew your father long ago, and I am more than aware of the Potter tricks.”

“Potter tricks?” Albus followed Malfoy down the hallway, glancing around as they walked, taking in the walls bare of decoration and photographs. The place seemed like a tomb, only one step up from dim and dingy. Downright depressing, he thought. Perhaps Malfoy was a tragic figure, languishing in darkness after the death of a loved one long ago.

Malfoy shook his head, and motioned Albus into the dining room. The long table could easily have seated a dozen or more, although Plippy was laying tea carefully at two close seats: the one at the head of the table, and the one directly to its right. “That will be all, Plippy.” At Malfoy’s nod, the house elf disappeared.

Albus set the portfolio on the table, nudging it into the space before the head as he himself claimed the other seat that waited. He reached out for one of the lemon creams, popping it into his mouth and sighing happily. “Your elf’s right; that’s bloody well brilliant. I might volunteer for the next trip out here just to have one again.”

“I’ll have Plippy fix you a package to take home.” Malfoy’s voice contained dismissal. He summoned a quill and began to page through the paperwork, making notes and signing where appropriate. There were moments where he paused, and Albus saw a hint of that passion again. Malfoy was the sort of boss who was entirely involved in everything his firm did. He wouldn’t sign simply because he was told to; he insisted on reading every word, and being absolutely certain he understood it.

“There.” Malfoy vanished the quill and closed the portfolio, handing it to Albus, who had to brush chocolate crumbs from his fingers in order to take it. “Your task has been accomplished, and I’m quite certain your friends will be relieved to see you in the Leaky Cauldron and know you have escaped unscathed.”

“They don’t think you’re a dragon, sir,” Albus said, relenting when Malfoy merely gave him a look. “Just a bit, perhaps. I don’t think any of them think I’m capable of taming the dragon.” And he knew they were all waiting for him, along with his brother who was supposed to meet him for drinks tonight. He wondered idly what they’d do if he didn’t show, and for a moment considered doing just that, to see what happened.

“You haven’t,” Malfoy said dryly. “I am not likely to be tamed, nor tempered, nor turned into some outgoing socialite. You have done your business here, Mr. Potter. Now _go_.”

Albus tucked another lemon cream into his mouth, chewing while he gathered up the portfolio and stuck out his hand. “A pleasure,” he mumbled, the words indistinct around the sweet.

“I’m sure.” Malfoy’s tone remained dry.

Plippy waited for them in the foyer, and helped Albus into his cloak. “Plippy hopes Mister Potter enjoyed the lemon creams,” she said hopefully.

“Very much so, and the chocolate biscuits as well,” Albus admitted. He accepted the package that she offered with a grin. “If you ever want to send more into the office, I’d never say no.” He smiled at the elf’s pleased reaction as she disappeared. “You’re well taken care of,” he said to Malfoy.

“I am, and the elves are mine. They do not belong to the office, nor are they available for hire.” Malfoy opened the door, and gestured through it. “Good night, Mr. Potter.”

“I’ll see you on Monday, Mr. Malfoy.” Albus tucked the portfolio safely inside his robes, then stepped out into the snow. It was falling thickly now, large flakes that were easy to catch as he leaned his head back and stuck out his tongue. They were a whisper of cold on the warmth of his tongue, and he swallowed each with delight, walking backwards halfway to the edge of the wards.

He felt the moment he stepped through, the slight sizzle that said he was free of the protections of the Malfoy grounds. It also meant he could apparate, and with a thought, he spun into the spell.

And stumbled in the snow when he remained exactly where he was.

He tried again, and a third time, each landing exactly in the same place. His hair was cold and wet, and he was starting to feel the damp through his heavy robes. “Mr. Malfoy!” he called out, hoping the man was monitoring his wards.

The unseen voice came a moment later. “Why are you not gone, Mr. Potter?”

“I can’t.” Albus tried one more time, feeling the magic pop and fizzle as he failed to apparate. “Can’t you feel it against your wards? Something’s wrong out here, and my magic isn’t working.” He tried to set a light from the tip of his wand, but the _Lumos_ fizzled as well.

There was no response, and Albus stood there, shivering for a long moment before he called out. “Look, sir, I’m cold and wet, and I’m likely to freeze out here, and that won’t be good publicity for the firm. Not to mention that I’d be ill, and miserable to work with.” Nothing, and with a sigh he added, “If I get any wetter, the paperwork’s likely to be wet as well and you won’t have it for your case on Monday.”

He felt the wards fall open for him, and he trudged towards the manor once more while making the mental note that apparently loss of work appealed to Malfoy, but not human suffering. Perhaps the rumors were true, and he was an unfeeling bastard after all.

For some reason this thought disappointed Albus.

He stepped inside the door, shivering as Plippy took away his outer robes once more. As he rubbed his hands, trying to warm them up, his gaze fell upon Malfoy who was eating a lemon cream.

Albus watched as grey eyes closed with a low sigh, and as pleasure relaxed Malfoy’s features. He felt something tighten in his gut at that expression, and crossed his arms, trying to think of anything else but what he saw. The tip of Malfoy’s tongue, licking his lips. The obvious pleasure at the taste of it.

Malfoy was human. He had to be. No one took that much pleasure from a sweet without having a heart hidden somewhere. And now that Albus had found his way to spend longer here, he was going to find the chinks in Malfoy’s armor, before watching the bloke completely destroyed his own composure.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco had watched as Albus Potter tried to leave, observing the young man apparently attempting magic, and failing. His lips pursed thinly, suspecting a ruse, but unable to do anything for it. His manor had been disconnected from the Floo network long ago for his own privacy, so unless he went out into the storm and bodily apparated the man away, he was stuck with him.

But that didn’t mean he was required to be social.

He took in the happy chatter of Plippy as it took Potter’s cloak away to dry and hang it, and of Darven as it fussed over Potter and took the portfolio of paperwork to put it safely into Draco’s study. Potter stood there once the elves were gone, wet and shivering, his dark hair curled damply across his forehead, and those familiar green eyes staring at Draco.

“This isn’t a social engagement, Potter,” he said dryly. “Plippy will show you to a room where you can spend the night, and it’ll bring you clothes and draw a bath. But please, don’t expect me to dance attendance on you all night.”

“It might be nice if you joined me for dinner. You have to eat, don’t you?” Potter’s head cocked, his stance confident despite the fact that he looked like a drowned kneazle. “If you eat in that dining room alone, you already know that it’s dull to bounce around alone in a room that large.”

“And of course, you’re a Weasley, so you can’t comprehend the peace allowed by having only one’s own company,” Draco responded mildly. He wasn’t going to admit that most evenings he dined in his study over work, if he bothered to eat at all. “I don’t intend to avoid you, Potter, but I do intend to determine what I can do to have you on your way as soon as possible. I have little need to have one of my employees living in my house a moment longer than required.”

“Plippy can be taking Mr. Potter to his room now, Master, if that’s what you wish for Plippy to do?” The house elf bowed low at his feet, looking up with hopeful eyes. It tugged on one ear, likely penance for asking permission to do something it actually wanted to do.

With a sigh, Draco waved one hand towards the grand staircase that lay at the back of the foyer. “Second floor, blue room, Plippy. Run a bath, and supply Potter with dry clothing. Bring him down again once dinner is laid out.” He fixed Potter with a glare. “Other than sharing a meal, I do not wish to be disturbed, nor have any reminder that you are in this house. Are we understood?”

“Of course.” Potter wrapped his arms around himself, still shivering, and Draco sighed inwardly. He summoned a heavy, dry robe and handed it to Potter to wrap about his shoulders, rolling his eyes when the younger man’s eyes widened in surprise. “Thank you,” Potter said.

Draco pointed at the stairs. “Go. I shall let you know as soon as it is possible for you to travel home.”

He turned his back on the elf and young man as they climbed the stairs. Potter was young enough to be his child, if he had chosen to have one. Once upon a time he had considered it, courting Astoria Greengrass before they decided to break it off and go their own ways. If they had gone ahead as planned, their son might have been born in the same year as Potter, and might have joined him in Slytherin.

The boy—and he was just a _boy_ despite being well out of school—was too young.

The snow already lay thick upon his lawn, coming down quickly with large fluffy flakes. Draco remembered Potter standing there, mouth open, tongue stretched out to catch one flake after another. Lips pursed, he put that image aside. He didn’t need to think about Potter’s tongue, nor how talented it seemed to be at catching snowflakes. For a moment, Draco considered doing the same, his mouth opening slightly before he caught himself. No. He would not be so silly; the time for that was long past. Instead, he needed to understand whether this inability to apparate was an affliction Potter suffered under, or perhaps something to do with the area around Malfoy Manor.

He brought his wand out, noting that the _Lumos_ took a shade longer to light than he’d like. As he moved the wand through the snow, the tip sputtered slightly, but held. One eyebrow rose faintly. Intriguing, and not something he’d seen before.

He lowered the wand, making his way through the snow to the edge of the wards. Eyes closed, he stepped outside, feeling the familiarity of the wards slip over his skin, leaving him magically naked in the storm. And immediately he felt the change, felt each droplet of snow like a small sting against his cheek. His wand sputtered out, going dark. The _Lumos_ was gone.

Lips pursed, Draco drew his robes warmly around himself and stepped back inside the wards. They were strong still, the magic comforting as it reached out for him, acknowledging him as belonging to this place. And once inside, he was able to cast a weak warming charm, and dry his shoes. But without significantly changing the wards themselves, no one but Draco could apparate out of Malfoy Manor. And frankly, with how difficult it was to cast the simplest of charms even inside the wards, Draco was unwilling to risk himself to apparition, let alone taking someone side along.

It seemed he was going to have to put up with Potter’s company, at least until the storm abated. He only hoped the strangeness of the storm didn’t damage his wards.

Plippy was waiting at the door to take his cloak and shoes. “If Master would be liking a bath, Plippy could draw one,” the elf offered. “Mister Potter seemed quite happy with his bath. He was talking to it when I left, telling it that he’d not be home tonight. He does seem to be quite happy to be here. Is there anything special you’d like for dinner, Master? It has been so very long since we’ve had a proper guest.”

“Or an improper guest,” Draco said, knowing the humor would be lost on the house elf. “And no, I do not need a bath, nor do we need anything in particular for dinner. If you must spoil Mr. Potter, than please ensure that he has lemon creams available for afters, but nothing more is needed. And do recall that you are cooking for two, not an entire dinner party.”

“Of course, Master.” Plippy bowed low, backing up, tugging hard at both its ears. Draco knew that they had already started preparing the meal, and that it likely could feed a dozen men, and he sighed inwardly knowing that it meant that he would be eating those same things for days after. He waved his hand, and with a pop, the elf disappeared.

Draco took the stairs up slowly. He’d chosen the blue room for Potter because it was at the end of the hall in one direction, while his own suite was as far in the other direction as possible. Space. He needed space between where they were, so he couldn’t hear the splash of Potter in the bath, nor wonder and imagine how he might sleep when night came. Draco paused at the top of the stairs, then let his feet carry him to the right, fingers lightly trailing over the doors to empty rooms between the staircase and the one he sought.

He couldn’t hear anything beyond the door, although he stood with his fingertips against the wood. A small smirk, then he tapped the door with his wand, and listened.

Nothing, save faint splashes and the sound of breathing. Rough. A bit ragged, and Draco hissed in a breath and took a step back as he let the spell fall. That was not something he needed to imagine, although the image had already sprung to mind. Draco leaned against the wall by the door, head back, eyes closed to try to blank out the idea of Potter slipping under water, his head thrown back as he—

No. Draco would not give in, would not allow himself this fantasy. Not with someone who was in his employ, and never with someone so _young_.

He pushed away from the wall and turned with a snap to his step as he walked resolutely away.


	3. Chapter 3

Albus lay back, his head against the side of the tub, relaxing happily. It was the perfect temperature, and bloody hell, did he ever wish they had house elves. He couldn’t imagine Malfoy kept them all nearly busy enough. Maybe he could tempt one of them to pop over to his flat, just once in a while, to prepare a halfway decent meal that wasn’t takeaway, or to press his clothes properly. Or to draw a bath of the absolutely perfect temperature to turn him into a puddle of jelly, like this one was.

Of course, the bath itself was big enough to swim in, and it made Albus wonder if every other guest room in this manor house had a similar bath, or if he’d been given the best of the lot. No, he couldn’t think that Malfoy would have done that. If anything, this was likely the worst of them all, since Malfoy didn’t want him here in the first place.

His mobile rang, and he reached out blindly for it, bringing it to his ear, careful not to get it wet. “Yeah?” He hadn’t wanted the thing when his father had first worked with Aunt Hermione to perfect the shielding so the technology would work despite heavy magical wards, but he had to admit, instant communication without crawling into a fireplace was useful at times. Besides, his father and Aunt Hermione had insisted that all the Weasley cousins carry them, just in case they got into a tight spot where magic wasn’t working properly. Like now, Albus supposed.

“Al!” His brother’s voice was cheerful, pub noises in the background. Albus could hear the added crackle from Malfoy’s wards, disrupting the connection. “Did you really just leave me a message saying you’re not coming home tonight?”

“I got stuck at Malfoy’s,” Albus replied, his mind replacing _Malfoy_ with _Draco_ in a thought where Malfoy treated him far more kindly. “Something’s not letting me apparate out. Or do much of any magic, really. Can’t even manage a proper _Lumos_. So he’s putting me up for the night, under duress. Can I just say this place is bloody well brilliant?”

“Is it worth having to put up with your boss? He’s a right arse, if I remember,” James said bluntly.

“And a handsome one.” Albus grinned into the phone when James sputtered. “Nothing’s going to happen. He’s either straight or asexual. He didn’t even blink when I flirted with him. He didn’t seem to be attracted, or respond, or even to get arsed off at me because I shouldn’t be saying a word to my boss. But yes, it’s worth spending the night here.” He tilted his head back, wriggling down lower into the water. “I’m in a bath larger than some pools, and there are three house elves determined to lavish attention on me since they haven’t seen a guest in an age. I’m going to enjoy one brilliant night, and hope he doesn’t decide to fire me come Monday.”

“If you lose your job, we’ll get you another one,” James said. “I’ll tell everyone that the dragon hasn’t destroyed you yet, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“As long as magic’s working again, yes.” Albus ended the call and dropped the mobile to one side, slithering down into the water to soak himself from head to toe. He scrubbed his hair and body with the soaps the house elf had left, inhaling the scent of spice that he recalled from Malfoy passing by in the office. It was odd to smell it from his own skin, as if Malfoy had draped himself across Albus, which was certainly an attractive thought.

A very attractive thought. His prick reacted with a flow of blood, becoming stiff beneath the water. Albus bit his lip, reaching down to wrap his hand around it, giving one slow jerk. He groaned. It was only a fantasy, and it wasn’t like Malfoy would ever know. He drew his hand slowly from root to tip, rolling over the head, then back down again in a slow wank. Another rough inhalation, imagining that Malfoy lay next to him in the bath, that it was his hand that stroked him. With a soft groan, he pressed his hips up, fingers tightening, rougher now as his breathing rasped.

Eyes closed, he saw Malfoy’s pale hair, heard his breath quicken with passion, saw those eyes go to liquid silver. His scent mixed with musk and desire, and Albus bit back a groan as he tumbled over the edge, spilling into the bath.

It took several breaths for him to find his equilibrium once more, ragged breath slowly becoming even as he washed himself once more, and stood to rinse. He stepped out of the tub, wrapping a thick towel around his waist while he looked for his clothing. Nothing.

His brow drew together in a frown, and he called out, “Plippy!” When no response came, he tried another elf. “Darven!” The frown deepened as he sighed. He’d thought the elves would be like the ones at Hogwarts, right at his beck and call, but of course, they belonged to Malfoy, not him. Grumbling, he walked over and pulled the door open, stepping out as he called, “Plippy? Anyone there?”

“You needn’t bellow.”

Albus blinked, spotting Malfoy in the shadows at the end of the hall. “I’m sorry. They haven’t brought my clothes yet, and I was hoping to dress.” Because there Albus stood, dripping wet, making a puddle on the floor, bare except for a towel. He couldn’t see Malfoy’s expression, hidden in the shadow as he was. “Although I suppose I could go down to dinner like this. I’m quite certain it’d be something new for your elves to see. A dash of informality.”

“You are hardly ready for dinner,” Malfoy spoke dryly. “And I should think you’re likely cold.” He drew his wand out, speaking the spell with a flourish, one hand out to receive the neatly folded trousers and shirt that appeared there.

Albus stayed where he was, fingers clutching the edge of the towel, as Malfoy came closer. Each step seemed measured, shoes clacking on the floor, Malfoy’s back straight and true. Albus wasn’t going to risk moving, although the idea of dropping his towel, just to see what happened, was tempting. “So you were just waiting outside my room, to make sure I was all set? I didn’t think you cared.” He took the pile of clothes with one hand, cradling them awkwardly to his chest.

“I don’t.” Malfoy’s tone was short and sharp. “I’d just come up from sorting out exactly why you were unable to leave.”

“Which is?” Albus was curious. He’d never experienced anything like it before, and truth be told, he didn’t like the sensation of not being able to properly cast a spell.

“Something in the storm,” Malfoy replied. “The wards protect us from the worst of the effects, here in the manor, but outside of those wards, it seems that the weather saps away magical strength. Once the storm breaks, you should be able to leave.”

“So if it stops in the wee hours of the night, are you planning on waking me up to throw me out?” Albus smirked, the smile falling away somewhat at Malfoy’s glare. “It was a joke, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Don’t tempt me, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “Go and dress.”

A soft pop interrupted them, and Plippy stood there, wringing her hands as she looked up at Albus with hopeful wide eyes. “If it would please Mister Potter and Master Malfoy, dinner is ready in the dining room. Plippy has lit the candles, and made certain that lemon creams will be brought out for afters.” Wide eyes blinked. “Does Mister Potter need help in dressing?”

Albus blushed, feeling that warmth down to his toes and sure his entire chest had gone rose. “Um, no, thank you, Plippy. I can manage to dress myself, now that Mr. Malfoy’s brought me some clothes. I’d like mine back, though, so I’ll have them for tomorrow.”

“Of course, Mister Potter! Plippy will launder and dry them for you specifically. Does Mister Potter require sleep clothes? The sheets are clean, in case Mister Potter prefers to sleep in the nude, as—”

“Enough, Plippy.” Malfoy pointed at the stairs. “Go down to the dining room and wait. I shall ensure that Mr. Potter arrives there without incident.”

“Are you going to wait while I dress?” Albus asked, leaning back against the door so it opened slightly. “You could come in, if you’d like.”

“No.” At another sharp wave from Malfoy, the house elf disappeared. Malfoy settled himself leaning against the wall, arms crossed, head back as he stared at the ceiling. “Be quick, or I shall leave you here,” he murmured. “I’m quite certain the elves won’t let you starve for long.”

Albus couldn’t figure out how to interpret Malfoy’s behaviour, but decided that for the moment, at least, he wasn’t going to try. Best to just get dressed (in the room, rather than dropping the towel right here) and join him, and sort the rest later.


	4. Chapter 4

Draco tried not to think about the fact that Potter was naked just beyond the wall he leaned against. Nor the fact that those were his own clothes that he had summoned for Potter, a far more reliable way of handling it than conjuring something impermanent. His jaw set, he resolutely thought of nothing, until the door opened and he casually pushed away from the wall and looked over at Potter. “Ah, that’s better. In this house, we prefer that people are clothed when they eat.”

“Sounds dull,” Potter replied with a grin, and Draco’s lips pressed thin at the thought.

He motioned Potter ahead of him, escorting him to the dining room. The elves had set the table in the same manner as for tea not all that long ago; Draco decided that no one needed to be at the head of the table, and he’d rather not share leg space with Potter beneath it, so he moved his own place setting across, instead of sharing the corner.

“How many of us do they think there are?” Potter peered under covers at the dishes below, checking out each one before he began ladling food onto his plate. “You could feed the whole firm with this meal. You ought to do that, you know.” He gestured with the serving spoon, apparently unaware of drops that flew from it. “If you held a dinner party, your elves would be happy and they could feed people without you having to suffer through leftovers for a week.” He paused, considering that. “You _do_ eat leftovers, don’t you? I’d hope you don’t just bin whatever’s left when you’re done. Anyroad, invite everyone over, and they won’t think you’re such a dragon, and no one would have to draw the short straw to deliver papers to you on a weekend.” Potter grinned. “In fact, let them taste the sweets your elves offer up, and likely they’d be vying for the opportunity to come by.”

“Which is exactly what I don’t want to encourage.” Draco’s words were sharp, and short, intended to cut the conversation off before it became even more irritating than it already was. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t enjoy company.”

“You were waiting outside my door to bring me down to dinner,” Potter pointed out. “Either you’re enjoying company somewhat, or you happen to be enjoying _my_ company in particular. Either way, I believe I win.”

Draco refused to dignify that with a response. To do so would imply that he was responding to Potter’s not-so-subtle flirting, and to divulge that he might have a reason for interest in return. And he would not do that.

Potter was silent a moment, cutting his meat carefully and popping it in his mouth, making soft pleased noises as he chewed. “Brilliant,” he said around a mouthful, voice hushed. “Absolutely brilliant. I’d love to borrow an elf if you’re ever interested in loaning one out, since you’d rather be alone. Plippy seems like a nice one. She’s been nothing but—”

“ _It_ ,” Draco corrected. “House elves do not have a gender.”

“I beg to differ.” There was a light in Potter’s eyes, and for a moment Draco had to remind himself that the elder Potter had married the Weaslette, not the Mudblood, and this particular Potter had not inherited fervor for house elf rights. “I knew the elves at Hogwarts,” Potter continued. “And they most definitely came in male and female. It’s easy to tell the difference, sometimes by name, sometimes by features, or what non-clothing they prefer to wear. Or by how the speak of each other at times. It’s difficult, when they don’t use personal pronouns, but they are most definitely a gendered species.” He paused, one eyebrow raising as he looked at Draco. “If you care to pay attention.”

Draco smiled thinly. “And there you have it, further evidence that I, indeed, do not actually care. Perhaps now you’ll listen when I say such, and not pound your head against a brick wall trying to prove otherwise. Of course,” he paused now, letting the silence draw out for an extended moment as his smile tilted into a smirk. “You are your father’s son,” he said finally. “And he always did have a fondness for repetitive action, even when he knew it would gain him nothing. Stubborn.”

“Still is,” Potter said. “Do you know, he still thinks I ought to change careers and join the Aurors?”

“And why don’t you?” Simple questions to make it seem as if he cared, to direct the conversation away from anything Draco might consider personal.

“Because I want to be a solicitor,” Potter said. “It’s that simple. Dad helps people by going out and hunting down the bad guys. I want to help people that made stupid mistakes, so they can get back on track and do it the right way around next time.”

Draco snorted softly. “Of course, a noble cause.”

“Maybe,” Potter allowed. “But you don’t have to worry about me going soft in court. I’m driven, and I’m not going to lose a case, no matter what.”

“Even if the man we defend is wrong?” One thin eyebrow arched delicately, Draco’s smirk widening at the consternation in Potter’s expression. “After all, we defend criminals,” Draco pointed out. “Some of them may be misguided, and some of them may be wrongly accused, but many of them are, indeed, criminals. Potentially evil, if you subscribe to such a thought. And yet, it is our job to ensure they do not go to Azkaban, not to rehabilitate them back into meaningful members of society.”

“I know.” Potter laid his fork down and crossed his hands. “I know, Mr. Malfoy. I’m well aware of what our firm does, and why, and I’m not going to let a case go out of some misguided sense of heroism. No matter how much you might want to lump me in with him, I’m not my father.”

Draco considered that, nodding after a moment. “I see that you’re not.” And he let it go at that, not wanting to think about the elder Potter any more than he wanted to think closely on the one who sat before him.

“Is that what this is about?” Potter waited as the silence lengthened, then reached out under the table, nudging Draco’s foot with one toe. “I mean it. Do you have a problem with me because of who my father is?”

“Of course not,” Draco said curtly. “I would have a problem with you being here no matter who you are, and no matter your parentage. You are in my home uninvited, and I have no desire for guests.”

“Who hurt you?” Potter shook his head, not looking at Draco as he poked at his meal. “I mean, someone must have hurt you deeply to cause this much scarring.”

“Some people simply prefer solitude.”

“Not like this.” Potter waved a hand at the room around them. “This is being a hermit. Were you betrothed and she dumped you?” A moment’s hesitation before he asked, “Or him? Was it some bloke who couldn’t manage to be serious because he was afraid of coming out in the wizarding world? Or maybe it was you that was afraid. I can’t think your father would have approved of that.”

“Silence!” Draco pushed on the table, shoving himself to his feet. “My personal life is none of your business, Potter,” he snarled. “And if you wish to remain under this roof, and not be pushed back out into the storm to take your chances, you would do well to remember that. Plippy!”

The house elf was by his elbow as soon as he finished calling the name. “Yes, Master?”

“Bring a plate to the study for me,” Draco said curtly. “I’ll be taking my meal there. Please ensure that Mr. Potter finds his way back to his room when he’s finished his meal.”

“Master does not like his meal?” Plippy tugged her— _its_ —ears, drawing them out longer. “Plippy made certain to make all of Master’s favorite foods.”

“It’s not the meal, it’s the company.” Draco fixed a stare on Albus Potter, glaring at him. “I find it turns my stomach, and I should far rather eat alone.” He didn’t give Potter a chance for rebuttal, sweeping from the room, knowing that by the time he reached the study, his meal would already be laid out, and he could enjoy it. Alone.


	5. Chapter 5

Albus finished his dinner in silence, no longer as interested in the food as he was when he began. But he made an effort to appear as if he enjoyed it thoroughly, so as not to disappoint the house elves that lingered, watching him. He finished the meal with three lemon creams, savoring the tart-sweet flavor of them, then picked up a handful of pumpkin tartlets.

“Plippy.” He spoke normally, knowing the elf was nearby.

“Yes, Mister Potter? Is there anything Plippy might do to make your evening well, Mister Potter?” She looked so woebegone, Albus was reminded of a puppy, and he sighed.

“Yes, bring a carafe of something to drink into Mr. Malfoy’s study,” he directed. “And two glasses.”

Plippy’s eyes went wide. “Oh no, Mister Potter, Plippy can’t be doing that. Master Malfoy does not want to be disturbed. If he is disturbed, he might be throwing things at Plippy, and then Plippy will have to iron her ears in penance for angering him.”

See, house elves did have a gender. How could Malfoy not have paid enough attention to notice it? Albus wondered just how much Malfoy lived in his own world, and what had shoved him there. Oh, he knew about the war, and Malfoy’s part in it. He hadn’t made it to adulthood in his family without hearing the stories of the war a hundred times or more, told in various different ways by his father, his mother, his various aunts and uncles. They each had their own spin on how things had played out, and Albus had learned long ago to patch together his own version of what happened from their accounts and his history books. But this—this wasn’t just the war scarring Malfoy. It was something else, something deeper. Something that made it so he couldn’t trust a peer, Albus thought.

Which was why he had to apologize.

He knocked on the door to the study, nudging it open when he didn’t hear a reply.

“Generally, when I do not say _enter_ , it means that you are not invited in,” Malfoy said dryly.

“I came to apologize.” Albus noted the carafe of golden liquid on the sideboard and went straight toward it, pouring two glasses. A rough inhalation brought a scent of well-aged whiskey, smooth and buttery, and rich on his tongue when he took a sip. He offered the other glass to Malfoy. “I was out of line.”

“Hardly unexpected. You were raised by Potter and Weasley, after all.”

Albus sighed. “And you’re out of line insulting my family. They’re people, Mr. Malfoy, that’s all. Yes, my mum’s family is large and yours wasn’t, but it doesn’t make either of you any better than the other. I think you, of all people, could see what damage prejudice does.”

Malfoy didn’t respond, nor take the glass, so Albus took another step closer to set it on the desktop.

“Anyway.” Albus swallowed a long gulp of the whiskey, enjoying the smooth burn down into his gut, and the way it warmed him from the belly out. “I’m heading off to sleep now, or at least to get out of your way by staying in my room, but I just wanted to say—” He paused for another gulp, needing the liquid courage. “I wouldn’t poke so much if I weren’t attracted to you. Sir. It’s just—I know it could be my job, but I’m saying it plainly here. And it doesn’t really matter, since I’d never expect you to be attracted in return. It’s just a fantasy of mine that you’re bent and just waiting—” He trailed off, heat pinking the tips of his ears. Had he just used the word _fantasy_? Yes. Oh dear, bad idea. He was going to lose his job, Albus was sure of it.

Malfoy rose smoothly to his feet, a ruler in his hand to gesture. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, how long have you known you prefer men in your bed?”

The flush deepened as Albus admitted, “I’ve never actually had one in my bed. I mean—I’m not entirely innocent. I’ve dated. I just haven’t—”

“Then how do you know?” One eyebrow rose. “The cornerstone of any knowledge is evidence, Mr. Potter, and it seems to me that your evidence is sorely lacking. Perhaps you are incorrect, and merely have some misguided fancy for authority figures, due to a lack of it in your upbringing. Or perhaps you might find that when it comes to that moment, you choose not to partake at all.”

“You could change that,” Albus interrupted him, flushing immediately after he did so. “Or you could fire me.” Because it seemed as if that option were becoming more likely, with the dark look Mr. Malfoy was giving him. In for a knut, in for a galleon, he decided, as he kept going. “I don’t see where lack of experience means anything. Just because I’ve never had a proper shag doesn’t mean I’m not positive I like blokes. It’s simple. When I’m thinking of a girl, there’s nothing. And breasts—bloody awful things.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’ve seen them, and they aren’t all that impressive. Oddly wobbly, if you ask me. But when I think of a bloke’s prick, my reaction’s immediate. I’m ready. So I’m sure, Mr. Malfoy, one hundred percent, although I’m never going to argue gaining evidence for my case.”

“Which you won’t receive here.” Malfoy set aside his quill, taking up the drink but not sipping from the glass. “This conversation is over, Mr. Potter. And if a word of it escapes to the office, it will mean not just your job, but instead your very reputation.”

If a word of it escapes— _why_? Nothing had actually been said. “I don’t care if they know I’m gay,” Albus protested. At the look he was given, he took a step back, frowning. Wait. Was this an admission that Malfoy fancied blokes as well? Bloody hell, but that thought sent blood racing southward, and Albus bit back a groan.

“Get out,” Malfoy pointed at the door. “Go upstairs, and do not leave that room until I say you may in the morning. Once the storm is done and you are able to leave. I’ll have the house elves deliver your morning meal.”

Draco Malfoy was gay. Albus took a step back, then another, trying to reconcile this confirmation—because he was sure that the threat made it a definite truth—with the stiff-backed man he saw before him. He inhaled roughly, imagining again that silver light that came into Malfoy’s eyes, and it nearly did him in. “Of course,” he said, and before Malfoy could say another thing, Albus slipped from the room.

Another bath might be a nice idea, he thought. Or another wank, then the bath to clean up. Then maybe another wank after that. After all, he was a healthy young man with a young libido, and he was about to be trapped in a room for the night. What else was he supposed to do?


	6. Chapter 6

So Albus Potter was gay. 

Draco stared into the fire, watching the crackling of the flames and ignoring the work spread out across his desk. That small tidbit of information—confirmation, really, considering the way the man had flirted with him—only served to bring to mind images he didn’t need to see. The thought of Potter in the bath earlier, or when he’d stood outside, skin still glistening with water, the towel barely held together at his waist.

However, Albus Potter was also a virgin, and Draco made it a rule never to bed a virgin.

They grew attached far too easily to their first, imagining themselves in love and unable to live without their partner. And Draco knew well that love was a fallacy and a weakness, brought on by hormones and lust, and not something that existed as the storybooks claimed, or if imagined into reality it didn’t last. All that actually mattered was sex, and no virgin could understand that. They never understood that it was merely about the physical release, and the pleasure gained in those moments, while the participants remained independent. Unattached.

No, as attractive as he was, Albus Potter was far from a potential candidate for a romp in the sheets. No matter how hard Draco was right that moment as he thought about it, and no matter how much he needed that release.

He rubbed at his prick through his trousers, pressing down on it as his eyes closed. Control. He had that at least, and he wouldn’t allow himself to be undone by some boy barely out of Hogwarts. Instead he shifted himself slightly, trying to make himself more comfortable as he rose from the wing-backed chair and went back to his desk. He sifted through papers, finding a note from a lover he’d met a few weeks ago. Someone he’d spent a passionate night with before the bloke went back to his life, and Draco returned to his job, relaxed and ready to take on the Wizengamot.

He sank into the desk chair as his thumb slid along the parchment, feeling the weave of it. High quality paper, as befit someone of money. The man wasn’t wizarding, although his sister was a Mudblood who had attended Hogwarts three years behind Draco and had managed to marry a Pureblood. He’d met the bloke at a gathering she hosted, and had made a note to contact him later and when he had done so, they had struck up an affair, no strings attached.

He could leave right now and find that release, and it would mean nothing. It would be better than his hand could provide, and yet attach no complex threads to his life, which was exactly how Draco preferred it.

But that would mean leaving Albus Potter alone in his home, to potentially prowl as he wished, and to intrude on the privacy of Draco’s life. And that would never do. So no, he could not leave while Potter remained here. Besides, the storm made it dangerous for Draco to attempt to travel as well, and he refused to risk splinching for a mere shag.

Particularly when a potential partner slept upstairs.

No.

He wouldn’t think of Potter that way, wouldn’t look at the possibilities. It was never going to happen.

He picked up the paper again, and with an irritable growl he crumpled it up and tossed it into the flames. They flared up, consuming the record of his interaction with that bloke, making ash of a relationship that never was.

Draco pushed roughly back from the desk and stalked from the office, the door slamming behind him. When an elf appeared, he didn’t even note which one, waving a hand to send it away. He didn’t want to be attended to. He didn’t want attention. He wanted to be left alone.

His feet carried him up the ornate staircase to the second floor, and took him right instead of left, until he found himself standing outside the door to the blue room. Outside the room where Albus now slept, or perhaps lay in bed as sleepless and irritable as Draco felt.

No, not Albus. _Potter_. He could not afford the luxury of thinking of Potter as anything but a colleague, no matter how attractive the man was. No matter how many times the man offered himself. Not only was he a virgin, he was an employee, and Draco Malfoy refused to mix business with pleasure.

Still, his hand crept to his trousers, undoing the button without thought so he could slip his fingers inside, finding his prick and stroking it until he fell back against the wall, swallowing a low groan. Root to tip, his hand moved slowly, teasing himself as he thought about Potter doing the same only a few feet away. Draco had seen the arousal outlined in Potter’s trousers as he’d walked away, and knew that Potter was young enough that he wouldn’t let that sit unattended. He had to have lain there in bed, perhaps stripped, taking slow strokes. Draco wondered if Potter had fantasized that it was his hand on Potter’s prick, and he bit his lip when the image came to mind unbidden. He glanced down, almost as if he could see Potter there, on his knees, perfect mouth swallowing him down. His free hand formed a fist, pressed against his mouth to keep sound from escaping at the thought of it.

No.

 _No_.

He couldn’t do this, couldn’t wank here in the hallway, imagining those virgin lips wrapped around his prick, taking him so deep that he hit the back of Potter’s throat. Draco’s hand tightened around the base of his prick so hard it hurt, stopping himself just on the edge of orgasm. _No_. He would not do this, would not give in to this base desire.

Slow, ragged breaths. He tucked his prick back away, groaning at the feel of fabric closing over it. He was close, far too close for where he stood at that moment. Temptation was a door away, and he considered knocking at it and taking what was offered.

After all, it would be just a fuck.

But not for Potter, and that was the problem. Draco’s eyes closed as he groaned inwardly, thinking about the ramifications. Potter wanting more. Potter being there, day after day in an office that they shared. It was an untenable situation, and Draco would not give in.

It took a few minutes for the raging ache to fade enough to walk comfortably. But when it did, Draco turned and made his way down the hall. A night’s sleep would make the urge fade, and in the morning he could send Potter on his way. And Draco’s world would return to normal.


	7. Chapter 7

Albus woke to sun streaming across his face, and the soft rattle of curtains sliding open.

“Would Mister Potter be wanting breakfast brought up?”

He blinked into the light, focusing slowly on the house elf that stood in front of him. He leveraged himself up on one elbow, rolling over to address her properly. “I can go down for breakfast, Plippy. Just give me a moment to get dressed.”

The elf pointed to a pile of clothes off to one side. “Your own clothes are cleaned, Mister Potter. But there is no need to go downstairs.” She tugged sharply at one ear, wincing before she spoke again. “Master Malfoy is not yet awake. Mister Potter should be staying in his room and not bothering the master.”

“I wasn’t going to bother him,” Albus said. Although he suspected he bothered Malfoy by his presence in his house in general. It was just a pity that Albus didn’t bother him in the way he wanted to. He was young, he was fit, and Malfoy was gay. It shouldn’t be this hard to give in to a fancy, should it? But no matter.

When he looked back, Plippy had both ears in her hands, yanking on them while her eyes remained soulfully wide, her expression hopeful. With a sigh, Albus relented. “Yes, please Plippy, bring breakfast up. It doesn’t have to be anything much, although tea would be appreciated. I feel a bit like I’ve been squashed under something large, and I need to wake up so I can head out of here. Has the snow stopped?”

“Oh yes, Mister Potter, the snowfall has ended.” Plippy gestured at the window. “Plippy will be making certain that the walks are clean after breakfast, so that Mister Potter can be outside without getting wet. But first, Mister Potter must eat. Is there anything else that Mister Potter is desiring?”

Malfoy. But that was in no way a proper answer to give to his house elves, so Albus shook his head. “Not right now, just breakfast.”

Breakfast, when it came, was flaky rolls with marmalade and sweet butter, and a carafe of pumpkin juice. Albus was starved, he realized, and ate well. But nothing seemed to lift the general sense of exhaustion he felt. His face turned towards the sun, enjoying the feel of the warmth on his face as he sat at the small table, and it occurred to him that a run outside might be just the thing for a wakeup.

He put on his own clothes, then transfigured his shoes to trainers, and the work trousers to trackies. On any other day, he might have apparated directly into the snow, but after it took several tries for the transfiguration spells on his clothing, he just didn’t feel up to it. So instead he crept down the hall and down the stairs, then headed to the door and let himself out as quietly as he could manage.

It was bloody well gorgeous outside, the sun shining off the snow so brightly that it hurt his eyes. Just the kind of day he remembered from growing up, when he and James and Lily would go outside to make snowmen and throw snowballs, and when their parents would join them after a time, acting like children while romping in the snow. Albus smiled. He’d always loved growing up in his household, because his parents had never quite lost that joy of life and love. Unlike some other people of their age that Albus could think of.

He glanced back towards the house, and with a snort decided that he ought to prepare a small surprise. After all, it was likely that Malfoy would come out to find him, and yell at him for tramping all over the lawn. So why not prepare a small fort and arsenal? He wondered if Malfoy had ever had a proper snowball fight, and if introducing him to such silly pursuits might break through some of that unfeeling arrogance that kept a wall around him.

Everything seemed to ache as Albus worked, his movements slower than usual. It felt as if he swam through sticky treacle, yet he wanted to do this, and working with the cold snow gave him pleasure. He began with the fort, stacking carefully packed balls upon each other like bricks, until he had built a small wall about half a metre high. Then he created a guardian for his fort, stacking three balls from largest to smallest, and adding a face for the snowman. Exhausted as he was, he still laughed to be doing it, pleased with how his guardian came out.

He sank down to sit in the snow behind the fort, half hidden by the wall as he sighed a breath out. The sun was warm, and it was tempting to just lie back and let it beat down on him as he wallowed in the chill snow. Something about that thought drew him in, and after he’d made two snowballs, he changed his mind, falling back. His hair was wet, his skin cold as he spread his arms out and let the snow hold him. Cold at his back, warm on the front, and it somehow seemed perfect. He didn’t want to move, and wasn’t sure he could if he tried, tired as he was. He felt something dragging at him, and it occurred to him that a warmth charm would be appropriate here. The words flitted around the edges of his mind, but he couldn’t recall the charm specifically, nor could he remember the wand motion. It was as if it had been stolen away and he sighed, letting his eyes close as he drifted.

“Potter!”

The voice as sharp and angry, but that didn’t bother Albus somehow, because he was elsewhere. He was comfortable and life was perfect, and he didn’t want anything angry to intrude. He meant to say _go away_ , but opening his mouth seemed like too much effort. Moving would be too much effort. No, he was content to lie here and just let go.


	8. Chapter 8

Draco awoke to Plippy setting out his morning tea and pastry by the window. He’d waved her away, not wanting to hear about the snow ending, or about how Mister Potter had fared that morning. He merely wanted to wake up slowly, not thinking about the fact that Potter was still in his house, and that Draco had yet to test how well magic worked that morning.

Instead he settled in at the table, looking out over the grounds, and let his mind drift for a time. It seemed to be a lazy morning, as if the world dragged at him. A few sips of tea nudged those thoughts away, and he nibbled at his pastry slowly, enjoying the sweet, flaky crumbs

He noted movement out of the corner of his eye, someone outside on the grounds, a darkness against the bright white of the snow. After a time it slowed, then stopped, and he forgot about it, involved in a particular passage in his book that was thick with detail as he read with his tea.

“Master Malfoy!” A low pop preceded Plippy’s hushed call, and she stood there, as close as she might be to him without touching, her hands hovering over his knee.

Bloody hell, he was thinking of the elf as a person. It was all Potter’s fault.

Her hands shook as she brought them together, wringing them in a manner that looked altogether painful. “Master Malfoy,” she spoke again, eyes wide. “Mister Potter went outside into the snow, and he’s laid down, and he hasn’t moved for many minutes. Plippy is thinking that something is the matter. He did not move when Plippy stood beside him.”

One eyebrow rose sharply. “Plippy, it is not my business, nor yours, if Potter has some odd desire to sleep in the snow. It is merely proof that the man is mad.”

“Plippy is not thinking he is sleeping,” the elf protested. “Plippy is worried that he is _dead_.”

Dead.

Impossible. And yet, the thought sent a tension curling around Draco’s gut in altogether unpleasant ways. He stood, feeling magic stutter as he summoned his cloak and wrapped it around himself. Magic was still not quite right, even within the wards, and he didn’t dare apparate down. Instead he took the stairs quickly and went out the front, turning until he spotted the odd snow wall Potter must have made.

He strode in that direction, long legs making quick work of the distance, and peered over the wall to see Potter lying beyond. “Potter!” he snapped sharply, but there was absolutely no response.

Draco knelt next to the younger man, one hand touching his chest. It rose and fell in slow motion, as if each breath took an age to resolve, but at least there was breath still there. His skin was chilled through, red in some places, angry and violent to behold. And there was no response as Draco carefully slid his arms beneath Potter’s lanky body and lifted.

The man was heavier than he’d expected, but then, he was a dead weight, limp and sprawling across Draco’s arms. It took him two tries to find a way to carry him easily enough that Draco could trudge back into the manor and wrestle him up the stairs.

He didn’t want his own sheets ruined by the wet of Potter’s clothes, so he took him to the blue room and laid him down on the bed there. Potter’s skin had started to take on a darker hue, blue around his lips, chest barely moving. Draco yanked his wand out, attempting a warming charm, growling when the spell fizzled and faded before it had begun.

No, he was going to have to do this a different way.

He stripped the sodden clothing from Potter’s unresisting body and tossed them into a pile in the corner where the elves could take them later. Then he drew several blankets over him, tucking him in warmly, but still his colour didn’t improve.

He needed warmth. But Draco couldn’t very well tuck him into a warm bath; no, Potter would slip under, unconscious, and drown. However, Draco himself was warm.

Lips pressed thinly, he shed his own clothes and slid under the covers, wrapping his arms around Potter’s chill form. The younger man was cold, far too cold, breath slow and even. Draco couldn’t think what had possessed him to do that, unless this lassitude that he felt was worse for Potter.

Draco’s breath slowed as well as he curled his body around Potter. He swung one leg over him, trying to wrap as much of Potter in his warmth as he could, to let heat seep from his body into the other. Eyes closed, it gave him time to think, to work through the problem at hand.

The storm had faded, but it seemed that magic was still an issue. It was dulled within the wards, and likely worse outside, and there was no guarantee how far that particular effect had spread. Draco could feel it, dragging at his bones, as well as the frustration that his fizzled spells caused. But why would Potter be affected more strongly? Youth? Less magic to begin with? No, Potter was his father’s son, and Draco suspected that he had surprisingly deep wells of untapped potential. On the other hand, in a storm such as this, the magic inherit in the storm might have sought out that well and drained it.

Or Potter could have unknowingly, and unthinkingly, given the storm better access to his own magical stores when he ingested the snowflakes.

Draco thought again about Potter standing there, catching snowflakes on the tip of his tongue and grinning as he let them melt into water. He had taken the enchanted storm into his own body, and now it had enchanted him. Which meant it was going to be even more difficult for Potter to recover from this loss than for Draco, because it had affected him more deeply.

The sharing of warmth was working; points where Potter’s skin touched Draco were warming, and Draco shifted in the bed to warm other spaces instead. Eyes still closed, he became aware that Potter’s breathing had quickened, matching Draco’s own, and that skin was coming slowly to a flush of warmth. When Potter moved, Draco moved with him, leg sliding against leg, hand resting on his abdomen.

And when Potter’s hand slid down his hip, Draco shuddered with the feel of it. Eyes closed, it was like a dream. Or a fantasy. It wasn’t real, only an imaginary hand that slid past his hip and barely touched where Draco’s hard prick lay against Potter’s thigh. And it wasn’t real that Draco let his fingers drift over the planes of Potter’s abdomen, following the sparse path of hair until he found a hard, hot length and wrapped his fingers around it.

It couldn’t be real as he heard a groan, matching the path of his hand as he wanked Potter slowly. Lip caught between his teeth, Draco forced his eyes to stay closed as he warmed Potter with his body and actions, listening for that catch of breath that reminded him that Potter was most definitely alive and waking back into this world. The dream world. It was nothing more and nothing less.

Hips pressed up, and Draco’s hand tightened, stroking firmly down to the root, then up over the tip. His thumb slid into the slit of Potter’s prick, smoothing the drop of lubricant over the head, then stroking again from tip to root and back again. Every groan shivered through Draco, and his hips shifted, rutting against Potter’s hips. His mind was slipping away in the pleasure of the moment.

And that’s all it was, a moment as Potter came back to life. Nothing more, nothing less.

Potter’s hips jerked again, more imperative, the rhythm fitful as he begged for more, a strangled groan interrupting his breath. He was close, and Draco urged him onwards, hand moving quickly until he felt Potter tense beneath him, and sticky fluid spilled out over his hand as Potter cried out.

Draco tried to gain control of himself as he breathed in slowly, stilling his hips. When he felt a hand touch him, reaching for him, he jerked back. He ignored the rough musk of Potter’s scent mixed with his own, and threw the covers off as he opened his eyes.

Potter lay there on the bed, skin flushed rose with warmth and desire, green eyes focused intently on Draco. “Let me get you off, too,” Potter said softly.

“No.” His tone was sharper than he meant it to be. He wiped Potter’s spunk from his hand, rubbing it into the sheets before he stood and stepped away, well out of reach.

“But why—” Potter pushed himself to sit up, blinking in confusion. “Why’d you do that in the first place?”

Draco smiled tightly. “You were chilled nearly to death from the snow. Whatever possessed you to lie down outside? You could have died.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t.”

Potter looked away. “It just seemed like a good idea at the time, all right? I was exhausted, and it was pulling at me. Like I was meant to be there. I feel better now, so thanks.”

Draco cocked his head, arms crossed as he regarded Potter. Better? If he considered it, he felt better than he had upon waking, more energized. He held his hand out, summoning his clothing, smiling slightly when they flew to his grasp. “It’s the snow,” he said. “And it will take you some time to recover, as you were impulsive enough to swallow an enchanted storm.”

Potter snorted. “I didn’t swallow the whole storm.”

“It apparently didn’t take much for it to nearly drain you dry of your magic,” Draco pointed out as he dressed, his trousers still uncomfortably tight. “I recommend that you rest. Unfortunately, you won’t be going anywhere until this snow clears, both from the outdoors and from your system.”

“I know a way we could pass the time,” Potter offered. He sprawled there, arms behind his head, legs askew. His prick was limp now, nestled in among dark curls, but Draco knew what it felt like when engorged, and could imagine it easily. And the way his legs spread offered an inviting hint of what lay between his cheeks, which was exactly where Draco wanted to be at that moment.

And exactly what he wouldn’t take. “No. I’m not interested, Potter.” When the other man’s gaze dropped to stare at Draco’s crotch, where a thick line raised his trousers, Draco flushed. His back went straight and stiff, pointed chin tilted. “Rest,” he ordered curtly. “And do not think to disturb me. The elves will take care of anything you need.”

As for Draco, he would take care of his own needs, elsewhere. He didn’t need Potter, and he certainly didn’t need to pluck that plum cherry the boy kept offering to him. Not today, not now. Not ever.


	9. Chapter 9

This wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be normal for a bloke to just walk away like that. Albus had seen Malfoy’s erection, and had felt him shuddering. It was obvious he was enjoying the whole process, but then he’d just walked away like it was nothing. Albus couldn’t imagine why.

After all, Malfoy was attracted to Albus. That much was obvious from the older man’s reactions. He had been watching while Albus touched his own prick, had watched the trail of Albus’ fingers over his belly and chest. He had been fascinated by every small movement that Albus made, from the shifting of his hips to the slow rise of his breath.

Albus had caught his attention, and _still_ Malfoy resisted him. But why?

It brought Albus back to his first thoughts, that Malfoy kept himself alone because something had hurt him once, so badly that he had retreated from the world. And Albus wasn’t willing to let that lie.

He’d been raised by his father, after all, determined to dive in bravely, but he was also a Slytherin, determined to get what he wanted. And he knew now, more than ever, that he wanted Draco Malfoy. Most Slytherins would be tricky, but Albus had never really managed subtlety. He preferred brute force, pushing forward until obstacles fell and he claimed his prize. It worked, most of the time, a strange combination of Gryffindor bravery and Slytherin cunning and determination. And this time, it was going to get him Malfoy in his bed.

But first he needed to know how to get around the blocks Malfoy kept throwing up in his path. Which meant delving into private places that Malfoy didn’t seem to want to talk about. No matter. Everyone kept records, right? And Albus was sure that the key to whatever was in Malfoy’s mind likely lay within that study of his. So all he needed to do was break in there and figure it out.

He pulled out his wand and tried to dry his clothes, muttering in frustration when the simple spell left his trackies warm but still wet. His magic was worse than it had been upon waking up this morning, although he did feel better than he had. Time would make things better, and he thought that time with Malfoy would make things perfect. They had an energy together, and Albus felt that transfer between them, buoying them both up.

Maybe that was the angle to take. One shag, and he’d have enough energy to safely apparate home. Albus grinned to himself at the idea of pitching that to Malfoy, knowing he wouldn’t accept it. But it was entertaining to think about, and actually a reasonable theory, considering the evidence so far.

He dug through the wardrobe in the room, surprised to find that several sets of clothes had been laid in, almost as if the elves expected him to stay. With a murmured thanks to those unseen elves, he pulled on something dry and warm, the trousers soft and fine, the jumper a thick dark green that kept out the cold. He left his feet bare, not minding the cold floors, and padded softly down the stairs.

He listened when he reached the base, one finger going to his lips at the pop of a house elf appearing nearby. “Shh,” he cautioned Plippy.

“Is Mister Potter wanting something?” Plippy whispered. “Plippy could be getting what he needs, and he wouldn’t need to be leaving his room.”

Albus translated that to _Malfoy ordered us to keep you in your room_ with a sigh. He wondered how two conflicting sets of instructions worked against each other, and how the elves own desires fit into it all. “Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me where Malfoy is,” he whispered in return. “So I don’t bother him. It’s a bit confining to be trapped in that room all day, and I just need to stretch my legs.”

There, that wasn’t entirely a lie, and might get him useful information. There was no point in breaking into the study if Malfoy was going to be sitting right there.

“The Master is in the front sitting room,” Plippy confiding. “He has been drinking whiskey. He is quite upset, Mister Potter.”

Albus couldn’t quite interpret the look she gave him. Was it recrimination? Was it hopeful? She wouldn’t come out and say what she wanted from him; house elves never did. But there was something there that he was supposed to get. He’d have to deal with that later. “I was looking for a book. Do you think you could point me in the direction of the study?”

Plippy’s eyes went wide. “Oh no, Mister Potter. Plippy couldn’t be letting you into Master Malfoy’s private study. Master Malfoy would be terribly angry.” She yanked roughly at her ears, clearly distressed. “Plippy cannot be doing that.”

Albus held up his hands. “No, no, I don’t want you to let me in. But it would make me very happy to know where it is. And then you ought to go get my clothes and clean them up. They’re wet, and transfigured, and I need everything put back to rights so I can leave as soon as I’m able, which would make Master Malfoy very happy.”

“Yes, that would make Master happy,” Plippy agreed slowly, although again, her expression seemed dubious. “He is not liking guests in his manor.”

“I noticed,” Albus said dryly. “And I know he wants me to leave as soon as possible, so if you get my things ready, I’ll be that much closer to doing so.”

She considered that thought for a moment, then pointed one finger down the long hall behind him. “Third door on the left,” Plippy said. “But Plippy won’t be letting you in or telling you that it is terribly strongly warded. And Plippy won’t be telling you not to touch the knob, because Master Malfoy is terribly private, and might hurt an intruder. Plippy will just be getting your clothing now.”

And in a blink, Plippy was gone.

Third door on the left, don’t touch the doorknob and there was likely some damaging wards on the door. Right.

Albus wondered why Plippy helped him like that, and whether she’d take that as an ear-ironing offence or not. Or perhaps she wanted him to get into the study, but he couldn’t think why she’d go against her master. Unless she thought he needed more company around here.

Still, Albus doubted that company was going to be him. After today, he might be lucky not to get fired, especially if he was caught trying to break into a private space. Not that the thought was going to deter him.

He considered the door, and automatically cast a spell to reveal hidden magic. He saw bright sparks briefly, around the door knob, and the sides and hinges, and a spray across the whole door itself before it fizzled. Albus glared at his wand as if it were at fault, and sighed. How was he supposed to break wards without magic? It was one of those catch 22 things his Aunt Hermione talked about, where you couldn’t complete one thing without completing something else, but that something else depended on completing the first thing before it.

In other words, he was likely stuck.

With a heavy sigh, he leaned against the opposite wall. He threw a half-hearted _Alohomora_ at the door, then a stronger one when the first looked like a tiny spark from his wand. Neither worked well enough to see by, nor do anything to the door. No, he was trapped and ineffective. And frustrated. He shoved the wand back into its holder and stood up, hands shoved into his pockets.

So much for attempting subtlety. He was going to have to face this dead on and beard the dragon in its den. Or well, in the sitting room.

After all, Albus figured his chances for getting fired were already high. Might as well go out with a bang, right? At least that’s what Uncle George always said.

He made his way through the house, walking on near silent bare feet, until he approached the front sitting room. He hesitated only a moment, wondering how much worse Malfoy could be when he’d had multiple drinks.

The older man sat on an antique leather couch, the surface worn from the years and looking soft and comfortable. He held his glass loosely in his fingertips, less than a finger’s breadth of amber liquid remaining in it. When Albus cleared his throat, Malfoy glanced over, and Albus felt warmth pool in his gut to see the look leveled at him. Liquid silver in his gaze, momentarily heated before a cool shutter fell, and Malfoy looked away again.

“I gave specific instructions that I was not to be bothered,” Malfoy said coolly.

“Because drinking alone is so good for your health,” Albus responded. He forced himself to close the distance and take up a second glass which had been left, pouring himself a drink. He sank into a nearby chair and took a sip. “Don’t blame the elves. I distracted Plippy and then found you on my own. She thinks she’s helping you by making sure I get out of here faster.”

“Can you cast magic yet?”

“It fizzles,” Albus admitted. “But I feel better than I did this morning.” Another slow sip, Malfoy echoing the motion with a sip of his own. “It seems we’re stuck with one another, so we might as well be pleasant.”

“Or you could stay in your room as directed.” Malfoy glared at him. “One wonders just why I employed someone who is so utterly resistant to following orders. If you are this much trouble in the court room, you will not last long with my firm.”

“I’m stubborn, tenacious, and I always get what I want,” Albus said. “By the time I’m a partner in your firm, I assure you, I’ll be one of the best you have.”

“Not unless you learn where to draw the line between being impulsive and being driven.” Malfoy set his glass down and leaned forward, his finger pointing at Albus’ face. “You have too much of your father in you, Potter, and that will be your downfall. This is no business for that sort of behaviour.”

“I am not my father.” Albus leaned forward on the edge of his chair, reaching out to twist Malfoy’s finger out of his line of sight. “If that’s what your problem with me is, then put it aside. I’ve never been like my dad.”

“This has nothing to do with your father.”

“Then what _is_ the problem?” Albus pushed from his seat and stepped forward, framing Malfoy’s face with his hands as he bent down to kiss him thoroughly. Roughly. Hungrily. “This is good,” he said. “Really good. Admit that at least.”

Malfoy pushed to his feet, meeting the kiss and shoving Albus back away as he broke it. “This is not what I want.”

“Isn’t it?” Albus gestured at him, hand sweeping from head to toe. “It’s exactly what you want. I can taste it. See it. Feel it. But you’re _afraid_ of it. For Merlin’s sake, what have I ever done to you? You don’t even know who I am, and you’re too afraid to find out.”

“I don’t want to know who you are.” Malfoy’s voice went cold, more chill than the snow outside. “I don’t want to know you at all, Potter. When I fuck,” he landed on the word with emphasis, “all I want is a body, not a person. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want a bloody _boyfriend_. I want to get off. The last thing I need is some virgin following me around like a sick, sad puppy because we were _intimate_ and now he fancies himself in love with me.”

Albus threw up his hands, eyes rolling ceilingward. “I’m not offering you a lifetime, Malfoy. I’m not going to get attached just because you put your prick in my ass. It’s going to feel good, and that’s it. And that’s all I’m looking for. So let’s hear it. I want to fuck, you want to fuck, and neither of us wants any more than that. Why aren’t we doing it already?”

He didn’t wait for a response, simply reached out to pull Malfoy closer, covering his mouth with his and kissing him until he felt the other man relent. When Malfoy’s tongue sought entrance, teasing Albus’ lips apart until he groaned and allowed him in, Albus was sure he’d won.


	10. Chapter 10

The kiss gentled, but was no less hungry for the shift in passion. Draco delved deep, reminding Potter who was in charge. He would control this, he would decide what happened, when, and how.

Hands slid down to Potter’ hips, yanking him in tight, pressing groin to groin and feeling the rub of their erections. Draco caught Potter’s groan, swallowing it as he rolled his hips, adding friction until the younger man groaned again, sagging against him.

Tension shifted, Potter’s hands tangling in Draco’s collar, turning them, shoving him back against a table. Potter wedged Draco between himself and the table, fitting himself neatly between his legs so he had something to press against. Hands slid under Draco’s shirt, untucking it from his trousers, then seeking buttons to pop them open. Draco’s fingers caught at those same buttons, helping, until he shrugged out of his shirt.

Potter wasn’t wearing anything nearly as formal now, the soft t-shirt tugging easily over his head until Draco had to pause to enjoy the view. Potter was half his age, and still carried the easy muscle of youth, his chest sprinkled with a soft fuzz of dark hair. Draco pulled Potter closer, teeth closing over one nipple, tugging until Potter’s hands tightened on Draco’s shoulders, and the man groaned deeply.

“Bloody hell, don’t stop.”

_Don’t stop._

Draco didn’t want to stop.

He was angry, he was aroused, and he was more than ready to turn Potter around and yank down his trousers and fuck him right there.

But he would regret it. He _knew_ he would regret it, and he knew why. Potter _was_ young, and he deserved better than this. More than this. He should find the man who wanted to be clung to, to be desired and who wanted more than the sensation of slipping into his hot, tight, firm ass for the first time.

“No.” The word was ground out, rough and low as Draco shoved Potter away. He didn’t intend to give him a chance to follow, twisting in place, the words for apparition on the tip of his tongue. But nothing happened, save stumbling forward and out of Potter’s arms when the spell failed. 

“No way, we are not stopping now,” Potter said firmly. He gripped Draco’s shoulders, dragging him back around and kissing him again, slipping his tongue into Draco’s mouth, teasing him until Draco reacted on instinct. Hands slid down Potter’s back, memorizing the musculature, finding the waistband and slipping under to squeeze his ass. Potter murmured his assent, mouth moving to Draco’s neck and nipping until Draco had to swallow back a groan.

He should stop.

He couldn’t stop.

He didn’t want to stop.

He pushed Potter back without breaking the kiss, fingers deftly undoing the fly of his trousers so he could shove them down over Potter’s hips. One step took Potter out of one leg, and the next left his trousers and pants behind on the floor. Draco didn’t stop to look at him, fleetingly noting just how sodding beautiful Potter actually was naked as he backed him against the wall and started kissing him again.

“You need to get rid of these.” Potter was somehow still talking, his hands between them, fumbling at the zipper on Draco’s trousers.

“No, I don’t,” Draco murmured. “You wanted to be fucked, Potter. You are going to get exactly that.”

He undid the zipper and shoved his trousers down just far enough to free his prick, aching and hard. Potter gripped him, wanking him slowly. Draco groaned and captured his hands, pulling them away and putting them up over Potter’s head. “Hold them there, or my shoulders,” he ordered curtly. “But don’t touch me.”

Because he was as hard as he’d been when he was Potter’s age, and as close to going off quickly as he had been when young as well. And he didn’t want to risk coming before he was buried deep inside of Potter, giving him exactly what he’d asked for.

Those hands fell to Draco’s shoulders, balancing Potter when Draco lifted him, hands beneath his ass, pinning their pricks together as Potter’s hips settled against his, and Draco pressed his back into the wall. He summoned the lube, slicking his fingers generously before slipping one finger between Potter’s cheeks, then inside. Resistance at first, then Potter relaxed with a needy moan, trying to press back until Draco added a second finger.

“Yesyesyesyesyes,” Potter whispered, words brushed in kisses against Draco’s neck. “Ohfuckdon’tstop. Want you. Please, oh fuck, Merlin, I want you.”

Those words coiled heat in Draco’s gut, and there were no more thoughts of ending this before he took Potter’s ass. He gripped his own prick, slicking it thoroughly. He had to grip Potter’s ass, lifting him, helping position him as he found his entrance and slowly pressed into him, waiting for him to relax enough for the thick head of Draco’s prick to disappear inside his ass.

So fucking tight. So unbelievably sodding _tight_.

“I’m okay. It’s okay. Don’t stop now,” Potter encouraged him, legs wrapped around Draco’s waist, hands tugging at his shoulders trying to encourage him to get closer.

And Draco obliged, gripping him tightly as he pushed forward, slamming Potter back into the wall as Draco slid in deep with a cry.

He paused then, feeling damp against his cheek, feeling the grip of fingertips digging into his shoulder blades.

“Don’t stop,” Potter ordered with a low groan, before Draco could ask a question, and that was all he needed, that quiet permission to pound into him.

And he did, pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in, settling deep, tilting his hips to scrape against Potter’s prostate. Fingers scrabbled at Draco’s shoulder, heels digging into his thighs as Potter held on, desperately pressing back against Draco, hungry for the fuck. And Draco was happy to give it to him, losing himself in the sensation of that tight warmth wrapped around him, slick with lube, Potter crying out on every thrust.

He wasn’t going to last long.

Just a few more strokes, and he lost control, arms wrapped around Potter, mouth at his throat as he spilled deep inside of him. He felt Potter clench down tightly, and warmth between them as Potter shuddered through his own orgasm.

Draco floated there for a long moment, Potter limp between him and the wall, arms and legs wrapped around each other.

Cozy. Gentle. Soft when Potter’s mouth found his in a questing kiss, tasting and teasing, thankful without the words.

Sweet.

 _No_.

It was just a fuck and it wasn’t going to be anything more, even though he could feel Potter’s loose-limbed embrace teasing him into an emotional reaction.

He pulled out, letting Potter down, steadying him when his legs wobbled. Stepping back, he pulled his trousers up and zipped them, standing there with his hands on his hips. Head cocked, he let himself finally observe Potter, who was even more attractive well-shagged, with his hair mussed and lips bruised.

Draco forced his expression impassive, one eyebrow rising. “Satisfied?” he drawled. “It wasn’t bad for a first attempt, Potter. I suppose I should thank you for keeping the weekend from being completely dull, since I couldn’t get out for relief. I might recommend a bath however, so you can return to respectability.”

And with that he walked away. He wouldn’t lead Potter on to expect something more than this. In fact, he wouldn’t see Potter again before the snow melted. After all, he didn’t want to encourage the now ex-virgin to cling.


	11. Chapter 11

Albus didn’t leave his room again that day. He called for Plippy, and took a bath, trying not to think about why he needed one and all the aches and pains he could feel. His back was scraped from the wall, and the house elf brought a salve to put on it.

It was impossible not to think about it.

Everything he did reminded him of it. And the thing was, Albus had wanted it. Liked it. He’d been practically begging Malfoy for it, trying to goad him into it. He didn’t regret it at all.

What he regretted was that he had a feeling it was never going to happen again. Which was a pity, since it had been sodding brilliant.

If all else failed, he had wank fantasy material for the next few months. It wasn’t as good as having a job he liked, but there was still a slim possibility he wouldn’t be sacked for seducing the boss. Malfoy hadn’t said anything about it yet, anyway, and Albus just wouldn’t even mention it come Monday. He’d say he was trapped because of the snow, and Malfoy ignored him, and that would be that. Not even a potential hint of impropriety.

Not that anyone would ever believe he’d been fucked up against the wall by Draco Malfoy. Albus was pretty sure it didn’t matter what he said, but still, he wouldn’t breathe a word of it.

After the bath he dressed back in his own clothes and laid the borrowed ones neatly to one side. He summoned Plippy again so he could retrieve his files, and spent the next several hours going over the papers, making notes, and preparing for Monday’s trial. It wasn’t his trial, but any notes he could leave that might help those who had to go before the Wizengamot would be good.

He hadn’t been joking when he told Malfoy he was going to be the best the firm knew. He was driven, in his own way, like any Slytherin would be. And he was good at this.

As the day wore on, Albus felt the tension that seemed wrapped around his shoulders like a chill blanket slip away. At the same time, he felt more energized, better than he’d felt at any time other than when he’d been in Malfoy’s arms.

Now there was a line: _you make my magic stronger_.

Somehow he didn’t think that Malfoy would care, unless it had meant he could apparate out of there, in which case he might have shagged Albus until he glowed with magic.

He waited until late, watching the moon rise, and the faint glow it cast over the damp ground. The snow had melted, and now there was little trace of the storm the night before. “I need my outer robes, Plippy.” He spoke into the room, knowing the elf would appear now as she had been all day.

“Is Mister Potter leaving in the dark?” Plippy held out the robes, wringing her hands once he took them away. “Mister Potter should be staying the night and having dinner. Plippy has cooked, and Darven has set the table already. Mister Potter shouldn’t be leaving without a full stomach.”

“I need to go, Plippy.” At the elf’s crestfallen expression, Albus sighed. “But I’ll take a tin to go, if you want to make one up. I’ll need to eat sometime, you’re right. I just don’t fancy eating with Malfoy right now, and I’m absolutely positive he doesn’t want to see me.”

“Master Malfoy doesn’t know what he’s wanting.” The elf’s voice was firm, but her eyes went wide as soon as the words were out, and she clapped her hands over her mouth. “Mister Potter ought to be ignoring Plippy, who speaks out of turn.”

“I didn’t hear a word,” Albus assured her. He wished that were true, that there was a chance Malfoy might want something different. But Malfoy had been very clear on the whole situation. It was sex, up against a wall no less. And he didn’t want it ever again. He’d even said Albus wasn’t great.

Albus sank down onto the bed as Plippy popped out, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The worst of it was, he’d promised not to get attached. He’d _promised_ not to be all virginal and naive and want more than Malfoy was willing to give him. And here he was, daydreaming about what Malfoy looked like naked, and wondering what it would take to trip him into bed again.

He refused to even entertain the notion that Malfoy might hear Plippy making up a tin to go, and stalk up here, throw open the door and order Albus to stay put. Naked. In bed. Or in the bath.

Merlin, that was a gorgeous image, the idea of all that pale skin and muscle soaking wet for Albus to stroke.

He groaned softly. It didn’t matter, because none of that was going to happen. Ever.

Still. Maybe he should at least attempt to say goodbye, and thank him for the hospitality. It would only be polite, after all, and his family had taught him to always be polite.

He shrugged into his outer robes and tucked the folder inside where it would be protected. Then he headed downstairs. He took his time, checking the study (closed and locked), the dining room (where an untouched dinner was laid out and ignored), and the front room. But Malfoy was nowhere to be found.

Plippy met Albus by the front door and pressed a large box into his hands. Just as Albus opened his mouth to say something—thank you, see you again sometime, _anything_ —Plippy disappeared and left him alone.

Then that was that, he supposed.

He opened the door and looked out into the silvery night. As he walked down the pathway, he felt the wards dragging at his skin, then that moment where they released him into the outside world. He waited, braced against any possible change, and was relieved not to feel the drain against his magic again.

That meant it was over. He was free to leave and complete a task he’d begun more than twenty-four hours before. Pity his friends wouldn’t still be waiting in the pub for him.

With a sigh, Albus wrapped one arm around where the folder lay nestled within his robes, and spun in place. He was gone before his heart finished its beat.


	12. Chapter 12

It took only a few hours to realize that he had lied to Potter. It had been a bloody good fuck, and Draco wanted it again. But he refused to allow himself the luxury of a second shag with someone like that, so he resisted, sitting by the fire in the one locked room in the house as he read over paperwork, reviewing cases that he didn’t need to settle for weeks yet. He knew when Potter left the house, heard the echoing sound of the front door thumping shut.

The manor sounded more empty than usual; Draco was aware of every small sound, the soft pops as the house elves apparated about to do whatever it was that house elves did with their time. One pop came louder, and he glanced up to see Plippy watching him, a plate in hand.

“Master Malfoy ought to be eating,” Plippy said.

“It’s cold.” He turned his attention back to the papers, uninterested in the meal. It was likely good—his house elves had impeccable skills—but his stomach turned at the idea of food. When Plippy didn’t move, he sighed and waved a hand at the table. “Leave it, then,” he directed. “I’ll eat later.”

But the food went untouched and Draco left it behind when he finally made his way up to his room in the wee hours of the morning, after several glasses of firewhiskey had dulled some of the odd ache.

Sleep eluded him, sheets tangled around his legs as he drifted in and out of fitful dreams, never quite finding rest and relaxation. When the sun streamed through the curtains, he gave up on the thought of trying to sleep any more, and made his way to the bath for a long soak.

His thoughts raced, slipping from memories of what had happened to ideas of what could still happen, then swallowed by recriminations against himself for even considering the idea. Still, his hand fell to his aching prick, and he wanked slowly, then washed again, cleansing himself of any remaining traces of Albus Potter.

Plippy waited when he climbed out of the tub, handing him a towel, wringing her hands tightly as she watched him dry himself off.

“Yes?” he said dryly. “Speak plainly, Plippy. You can iron your ears later if you so desire.”

“Will Master Malfoy be wanting his outer robes?” Plippy asked, with a sharp tug on both her ears.

He fixed the elf with a glare. “And why would you expect that I might go out? I have no intention of going anywhere until I must be at the Wizengamot in the morning.”

“Plippy thought Master Malfoy might wish to visit Mister Potter.” The words slipped out in a rush. “Plippy might have written the proper address on a paper in Master’s study, if Master would be seeking it. But Plippy wouldn’t be saying that he _should_ , only that he _might_. But if he does, there is a tin of lemon creams to bring, waiting on the kitchen table, with croissants for Master’s breakfast.”

Draco’s first inclination was to snap, his lips pressed together to keep the words inside. “Go,” he said softly. Dangerously. “Might I suggest that every elf in this house should inspect the attic today. I believe it needs a thorough cleaning, of the sort that would mean I see no one but my own company until tomorrow.”

Plippy made a soft sort of whimper, twisting her ears roughly. “Master Malfoy will need to be eating, and he will need his elves to feed him.”

“I assure you, I can manage to find my own meals in your absence, Plippy,” Draco said curtly. “Now _go_.”

The elf was gone with a sharp pop, and Draco was alone with his thoughts.

Moments later found him leaving the manor, a tin tucked away inside the inner pocket of his robes, an old Slytherin scarf wound about his neck against the chill that remained after the storm had passed. He passed through his wards, familiar in the way they let him slip away, knowing they’d welcome him back when he returned. He held the paper loosely in his hand, the house elf’s writing spiky and scrawling across the page. Draco knew the neighborhood, a small street off of Diagon Alley, riddled with flats for those who needed to live in Wizarding London but couldn’t afford a townhome in the district. It surprised him that Potter didn’t have a better place, given the amount of money his parents had, but then, perhaps he was too proud to accept it.

A quick apparition, and a short walk, and he stood in front of number thirty-two. He raised the knocker labeled Potter & Potter, holding it up as he drew in a long, low breath. Pulling his hand away, he let it fall back with a sharp rap that echoed into the appropriate flat. A moment later a voice rang out. “Yes?”

“Draco Malfoy to see Albus Potter,” he drawled, as if it were no matter. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, body stiff while he tried to give the appearance of lazy nonchalance.

Silence for several long, slow breaths, then the door swung open. “Second floor,” came the voice again.

Draco stepped inside, climbing the stairs to where a door stood open at the top. He didn’t bother to knock, pushing it wider as he stepped in, and stopped. “You are not Potter.”

The other man grinned. “I’m the other Potter. James.” He stuck one hand out, clasping Draco’s hand briefly. “And I’m heading out to… get some groceries. I’ll be a while.” The hesitation and implication that he was leaving Draco alone with the younger Potter was obvious, but Draco chose not to acknowledge it aloud.

“You look exactly like your father,” Draco observed.

“Everyone says that,” Potter returned. “And Lily looks like Mum. Al’s our odd one, with a little bit of each of them, and something else entirely.” He pushed past Draco, pausing when he was squeezed next to him in the narrow hall by the door. “He’d best be in one piece when I return,” he said quietly. “And if you’re here to sack him, you ought to leave now and wait to do it properly in the office tomorrow morning. He didn’t do anything you didn’t want him to.”

Draco smiled thinly. “You are indeed your father’s son, and your brother still has a job. If you intend to leave, please do so. Immediately.”

James Potter didn’t seem cowed, still grinning as he backed through the open door and closed it behind him, leaving Draco alone in the apartment with no idea where Albus Potter was, other than presumably in there with him.

“Potter!” he snapped, voice ringing off the bare walls. His lips thinned, pressed together. Not Potter. Not after what they’d done. “Albus,” he said then, just as commanding, though somewhat less sharply than before.

The younger man stepped out of a room down the hall, pausing there. It looked as if he’d just gotten out of bed, his dark hair tousled and green eyes bright. He reached up, running his fingers through his hair which only made him more sleep-mussed. The well-worn comfortable robe wrapped around his waist and his bare feet all added to the image and made Draco want to shove him back into that room and onto the bed.

Instead, Draco put his hands in his pockets, back properly straight as he regarded Albus. “Do you always sleep in so late?”

“I’ve been up, but I didn’t need to go out so I didn’t bother getting ready,” he replied. “Is there a reason why you’ve decided to call me Albus instead of Potter?”

There was an odd note in Albus’ voice, and Draco glanced away. “Make tea,” he said quietly. “And bring it into your sitting room.” He glanced around, not certain which door off the hallway might lead there. “You do _have_ a sitting room, do you not?”

“There.” Albus pointed to the end of the hall, and an open doorway leading off to the left. “Across from the kitchen. You can go sit down, and I’ll be just a bit. I’ll get the water on, then put on some trousers.”

Draco bit his tongue, trapping the words _don’t bother_. He refused to embarrass himself, refused to beg. And he had never truly learned how to properly flirt. “Very well.”

He made himself a place on the threadbare sofa, brushing it carefully and resisting the urge to bring out his wand to cleanse it properly. It left him sitting with his back to the door, facing the windows that looked out over the busy street. He could hear Albus moving about in the kitchen, then down the hall. He didn’t hear a door close, and he wondered if Albus were changing in plain sight. For a moment he considered following him, but instead he crossed his legs and stared out the window.

“Is this business? Did you find something wrong with the case?” Albus’ voice floated back to him.

“No.” Draco left it at that.

“Then what is it about?”

“Tea,” Draco said. “Bring tea, then we’ll talk.” Reaching into his inner pocket, he drew out the tin of lemon creams, and laid it upon the coffee table, open so the sweets could be seen.

Albus came in a moment later, dressed casually in Muggle clothes. He set two mismatched mugs on the table, nudging aside some papers to do so. A steaming pot of tea followed on the next trip, before Albus settled on the sofa next to Draco. “You have tea,” he said.

Draco gestured at the table, from the pot to the mug, and waited. With a sigh, Albus lifted the pot to pour, almost spilling when his gaze caught the tin. He finished pouring and set the pot down, taking two of the sweets from the tin and popping one into his mouth.

“Tell Plippy I said thank you,” he spoke, muffled around a mouthful.

“She insisted.” Draco smiled thinly. His hands were clasped in his lap, knuckles white. “She can be quite persuasive, as it turns out. And as it turns out, she was correct. I did need to come speak with you about what happened.” His smile was wry as he took a sip of tea, avoiding meeting Albus’ gaze. “Yesterday. Against the wall.”

As if there were anything else they might require speaking about. Draco inhaled the warm scent of hot tea, cradling the cup close as if it were his talisman against all that might go wrong, and he waited for Albus to reply.


	13. Chapter 13

Albus felt his heart drop down to his toes. “About what happened yesterday? Is this where you sack me, because I promise, I’m never going to mention it at the office. I told James, but that’s it, I promise. Well, he might tell Lily, because none of us have ever been able to keep a secret from the others, but it won’t go any further.”

“Potter—”

“I’ll make them both swear. Unbreakable vows, even, just don’t sack me. I like this job, and it was all consensual, and even if I wasn’t very good at it—”

“ _Potter_.”

At the dry sound of Malfoy’s order, Albus stopped rambling. He swallowed hard. “Yes?”

“Hush.”

Whatever he expected to come next after that quiet order, it wasn’t the soft brush of Malfoy’s mouth against his. It wasn’t the feel of a hand sliding behind his head, cupping it and pulling him closer. It wasn’t someone taking the simple kiss deeper, until it swallowed Albus’ breath away, and made him want to crawl into Malfoy’s lap, straddling him and taking every kiss he was willing to give.

As he struggled to find some semblance of sanity once the kiss broke, Albus blinked, trying to bring the world back into focus. “Malfoy?”

“Draco,” he was corrected, just before another kiss began.

Albus gave in to instinct and slid into Draco’s lap, straddling him so he could kiss him more easily. Comfortably. Lingering over it and trying not to think about why they were doing this and why it involved kissing and whether this meant he’d be sacked on Monday morning when Malfoy— _Draco—_ came to his senses again. He groaned softly, pulling back, hands on Draco’s shoulders.

“What are we doing?” he asked quietly.

“I should think that would be obvious,” Draco pointed out. His hands slid down Albus’ back, resting against his bum.

Albus had to resist pressing back against that touch, or forward, or simply ripping his (and Draco’s) clothes off entirely. “Why?” he made himself ask. “You said—”

Draco’s jaw tightened, expression darkening. “I was wrong,” he said flatly. “Now, do you truly intend to continue a conversation, or would you rather do something more interesting before your brother returns?”

Albus’ body ached to do _something_ , anything to relieve it. But this was his boss. Not to mention a fancy that he’d had for a long time, and he sighed. “I need to question your motives,” he said, leaning his forehead against Draco’s. “Plainly, since our position doesn’t allow me to be particularly subtle at the moment. It’s obvious that one motive is sex.” His hand slid down Draco’s chest, falling to the hard ridge in his trousers. “But what else? What changed?”

“You’re not a virgin anymore.”

“I doubt that’s it.” Albus pushed back and slid from Draco’s lap, putting distance between them. “You don’t want me to get attached, then you show up on my doorstep and try to shag me on the couch. I know I promised I wouldn’t get attached, but we were talking about one time then. Not repeated times.”

When he glanced back, Draco’s head was twisted, staring off into a corner of the room. His expression was sour and sad, his jaw tight. “This is the definition of irony,” he said after a long moment.

“I don’t understand.” Albus crossed his arms, watching Draco carefully. “What’s so ironic here?”

“Me.” Draco’s gaze was cool and grey as he turned to regard Albus. “I didn’t want to get involved with a virgin because you would become attached, and follow me like a lost puppy, and yet, here I am, in your flat, quite close to begging you to shed your clothing and sit on my lap.” Two heartbeats thumped before Draco spoke again. “I’m the puppy.”

Is that what Draco was afraid of? Getting attached to a bloke who didn’t get attached back? Albus shook his head, hands falling to the hem of his t-shirt so he could skin it over his head. “You don’t need to beg.” He settled back on Draco’s lap, straddling him, hands slipping beneath Draco’s shirt to find warm skin. “And you’re not being needy. Or at least, you’re not asking for anything I don’t want to give, as long as you recognize that I’m going to want it in return. You.” Albus kissed the corner of his mouth. “This.” He brushed his lips against Draco’s. “For real, if you’re interested. I’ve fancied you for a bloody long time, and I was more than willing to let it be just that one time. But if you want me again, you’ve got me. As your—” he hesitated, making a face.

“Boyfriend is a dreadful word,” Draco deadpanned. “Try _paramour_.”

Albus grinned. “Fine. Paramour. You’re stuck with me after the second time.” He framed Draco’s face with his hands, controlling the kiss this time, luxuriating in it, letting it go on for a long time.

When Draco pulled him forward, hip to hip, Albus groaned and he heard Draco’s answer in a low moan. There were things left to discuss, he was sure of it. Like what to say at the office, and what this actually meant (although _paramour_ sounded bloody well good to Albus). But right now, Albus wanted to settle the simple things. “Let’s go to my room,” he whispered against Draco’s neck, nipping at the skin there, loving the feel of fingers slipping under the waistband of his trousers to tease his ass. “I don’t want to shock James when he comes back.”

“One Potter seeing me naked is more than enough for me,” Draco murmured back.

When Albus offered his hand, Draco took it, following where Albus led. It wasn’t a declaration of eternal love, but from the man who avoided everyone, it was something important, and Albus knew that. He knew he’d been handed a cautious heart, and he intended to protect it as if it were his own, for as long as he was allowed. And as Draco kicked the door closed behind them, then pressed Albus down into his bed, Albus hoped that it was for a very long time indeed.


End file.
